


Fire and Ice

by gleefulmusings



Category: Glee, Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Police Procedural, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-03-13 04:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3368666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gleefulmusings/pseuds/gleefulmusings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Best friends Kurt Hummel and Santana Lopez are the newest detectives at Manhattan's Special Victims Unit. Sergeant Olivia Benson isn't sure quite what to make of them. Psychic!Kurtana</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Covalent Bonds

Sergeant Olivia Benson carelessly tossed the memo on her desk before turning in her chair and staring out the window. It was another lovely day in New York City: overcast, the gray sky reminiscent of dull chrome. Everything looked filthy and the teams of people roaming the streets far below looked like a herd of colorful ants.

She loved it. She loved everything about it. There was nowhere else in the world she would want to live.

She picked up her phone and was about to dial before thinking better of it. Noah was fine, she told herself. Her nanny was smart and reliable; Olivia trusted her. There was nothing to worry about. Still, she supposed, mothers always worried. It was just part of the job.

She smiled. It wasn't really a job, though, and had yet to feel like one, despite her overwhelming exhaustion. She adored Noah and he was just as enamored of her. She still wasn't sure she felt like a mother and not a caretaker. Her own mother had been ...

She forced those thoughts away. She was not her mother. She would do right by Noah.

She cleared her throat, stood, and stuck her head out of her office door, whistling sharply. At once her detectives - Nick Amaro, Amanda Rollins, and Fin Tutuola - paused in their brainstorming over the latest case and looked toward her.

It was still weird and uncomfortable to consider herself their superior. She didn't feel like it was true and often found it difficult to give orders. She was almost always surprised when they were obeyed, that her team respected her decisions and trusted her instincts. Cragen had slightly bullied her into taking the Sergeant's Exam. She had done well - incredibly well - and knowing he was proud of her counted for a lot.

But he was gone now. So was Munch. She missed them.

She didn't think she'd ever get over losing Elliot. She'd been lax in keeping in touch, she knew. She'd been ducking his calls. It was just so difficult to walk into the station knowing that he wouldn't be there. It was like a divorce, the dissolving of their partnership, but knew he had needed to go if he was to stay sane. Oddly, she kept in better contact with his wife. She had always felt like the third wheel or the other woman in that marriage, despite the fact that she and Elliot had never been inappropriate.

She blinked heavily and refocused, crossing into the bull pen and resting a hip against Amaro's desk. "Heads up, guys: word's come down from 1PP. As of tomorrow, we'll have two new detectives joining our team."

Fin scowled. "Why are we only hearing about this now?"

He wasn't in the mood to coddle more newbies. He was pleased with Rollins but still missed Munch. And Cragen. And Stabler. There had been too damn much turnover this past year and he didn't like it. The last thing he wanted or needed was two interlopers infiltrating their ranks, especially if 1PP was pushing the placement.

Olivia offered a half-smile and shrug. "Not my call. Apparently a day's notice should be sufficient according the powers that be."

"Assholes," Amanda darkly muttered, shuffling paperwork across her desk.

Fin shot her a proud grin.

"They just pass the detective exam?" Nick surmised. "Good for them, but how long are we supposed to be babysitting?"

Olivia raised a brow. "Not long. They might be new to us, but they've put in almost five years in Special Victims at Chicago Central."

Fin blinked. "Damn. Central's no joke. If they managed to last five years, they must be pretty solid."

"They are," she agreed. "Their closure rate is above ninety percent. So is their conviction rate."

Amanda and Nick stared.

She smirked.

"So they're already partners?" Amanda asked. "If they're so successful, why are they leaving and transferring here?"

Olivia paused. "They are partners. I don't know any specifics about the transfer, only that they apparently do everything together." She sighed. "Listen, guys, the higher-ups are pretty pleased with this coup, not the least of which is because both detectives are gay and thus lend further credence to 1PP's inclusivity campaign of the force more accurately reflecting the _unique and dynamic cosmopolitan population of the City_."

"Verbatim?" Nick asked.

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm so fucking cosmopolitan that Sarah Jessica Parker has me on speed-dial," Fin drawled.

Amanda snorted and blinked back tears of laughter.

Olivia became serious quickly. "No hazing, guys. _Please_. These two are already on the union's radar and if they get wind of any kind of harassment with regard to sexuality, I'm telling you right now that I won't know you when IAB comes to investigate. You know they're just looking for a reason to shut us down. If you give them one, it's on you."

They gave her sober nods.

"So what do we know about them?" Nick asked. "Are they from Chicago?"

Olivia shook her head. "They're both from the same small town in Ohio. They've been best friends since their junior year in high school."

Amanda gave a low whistle. "That's a lot of shared history."

"They split up for college," Olivia continued, pulling out her notepad. "The woman is Santana Lopez. She's said to be very sharp but fiery. Has a penchant for becoming emotionally invested in her cases and not too concerned about rules or protocol."

"Gee," Fin drawled. "How will she fit in around here?"

Nick snickered.

Olivia cleared her throat. "She's intelligent, well above average, but also very street smart. She has bachelor's degrees in Sociology and Criminology from Penn State. Master's in Public Policy from Northwestern. Married to a woman named Brittany Pierce. Lopez is also a veteran. Marines."

"She see any action?" asked a curious Nick.

"Tour in Afghanistan."

"And the man?" Amanda asked.

Olivia looked down and flipped a page. "Kurt Hummel. He's ... "

"Kurt Hummel?" the other woman interrupted. "Seriously?"

Olivia paused and raised her eyes. "You know him?"

Amanda nodded. "Met him in a seminar at Quantico." She closed her eyes in thought. "The Phenomenology of Victimology."

Fin rolled his eyes.

"He's pretty smart," she added, "considering he taught the class and had written the text."

Fin and Nick blinked.

Olivia smirked. "Kurt Hummel. Extremely intelligent with an IQ well into the one-fifties. He was premed at Brown and graduated with dual degrees in Biochemistry and History. Has a Master's in Forensic Psychology, also from Northwestern. He's received CIA training in interrogation and did a stint in the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the FBI. Unmarried; little to no immediate family. He's said to be cold and aloof, very detached in investigations. One of his COs described him as a brilliant workaholic. He's also able to empathize with victims to the extent that his former superiors questioned if he was one himself."

Amanda and Olivia shared a long look.

"As previously stated," Olivia continued, "Hummel and Lopez work well together. They refuse to work with anyone else, each threatening to walk when it was suggested by the department psychologist they be split up temporarily to ensure they weren't codependent."

"So they are codependent," Nick said.

"We all are," Amanda countered. "Who here really wants to work with someone outside the team?"

A pregnant and embarrassed silence fell.

"So how do you want to approach this?" Fin asked Olivia.

"Trial by fire. Let's see just what they're made of."


	2. Partners in Crime

Kurt stared out the floor-length windows overlooking Central Park as he nursed his cup of coffee. He couldn't deny that he was nervous. He felt a bit of a fool. It had been a long time since he had felt anxious about anything.

Hell, it had been a long time since he'd felt anything period.

He rolled his neck and briefly closed his eyes, commanding his nausea and blood pressure to recede. He wasn't about to show up at a new precinct looking like something the cat had thrown up. He knew how it went: a new lion was introduced into the pride and it was a battle to determine how the hierarchy would shift in response.

He didn't give a flip about hierarchy, though, which could be both a blessing and curse. His apathy to command structure meant that he was almost impossible to intimidate and was untroubled by censures and threats, but it didn't win him many friends. Of course, he didn't care much about friends either. He had Santana and Brittany, and they were all he needed.

Sometimes he felt like a third wheel in their marriage, though both had insisted nothing could've been further from the truth. Still, it was strange to be a single man in his early thirties who lived with a married lesbian couple.

Well, technically, he supposed, it was they who lived with him. He liked that just fine.

He looked around the massive apartment and sighed. It was an outrageous expense, he knew. His broker had gawked when Kurt had directed him to make the purchase, but what the hell was the point of having money if you didn't spend it? Besides, New York real estate was always a safe investment. If he ever decided to sell, he knew he'd make the money back and more.

Further, he had no husband and no prospects were on the horizon. He didn't have children and probably never would. He'd always assumed he'd have a child by now, but as the years passed, his desire had turned to strident ambivalence. The demands of his job were legion and, frankly, after everything he had witnessed over the years - and what he himself had endured - he was reluctant to bring a child into this world.

He had never been interested in carrying on his family name or perpetuating his genetic pedigree. He had the money to support a whole tribe of children but refused to be a parent in name only, one who passed off the responsibilities and rewards to a team of overly educated nannies.

He could have afforded a surrogate, but being a single parent - even an affluent one - was a difficult road and the child often paid the price. He firmly believed that single parents were heroes, but he was also realistic. This was no longer a world of villages and it took a lot to raise a child in this modern age.

And he was making excuses. Again.

He didn't want to be a single gay dad. He didn't want a child to experience the stigma, even second-hand, homosexuality still engendered, no matter how absurd or anachronistic. He didn't even know if he wanted to be married.

He liked being alone. He enjoyed the solitude and lack of commitment. He liked working long hours when he wanted. He liked having no one to whom he must answer. Sure, sometimes he was lonely and longed for more, but those moments usually passed.

He often resented the majority opinion that he was lacking in some fashion because he was single, as if he were half a person instead of whole. He was single because he liked it. He was independently owned and operated. He wasn't afraid of relationships or of men or of commitment. The right guy had just never come along and, the older he got, the less worried he became if that guy ever showed up at all. He would be fine on his own; he already was.

And there had been several Mister Right Nows who had helped him pass the time quite satisfactorily.

He smirked and took another sip of coffee.

His nerves were already receding. He glanced down at Central Park and pretended he could see Santana jogging back to their building. He didn't and would never understand that particular form of exercise, but she loved it. To each their own, he supposed.

He crossed into the kitchen, rinsed his mug and placed it in the dishwasher, looking toward the staircase. He knew Brittany was exhausted and hope she would manage to get some sleep, but he was sure she would wake herself up to wish them a good first day.

He sighed.

He had never imagined all those years ago that he'd be coming to New York City as an SVU detective.

* * *

Santana pumped her legs faster as she ran over the Pinebank Arch. She was really starting to feel the burn and glad she was almost finished. Another few minutes and the Maine Monument would come into view. A quick jog across the circle and she was home.

She knew Kurt felt weird being in New York, but it was just a city to her. Home was wherever he and Brittany were. Granted, their digs were pretty sweet and she'd had to swallow a lot of pride just to cross the threshold, but she loved it. She loved the views and the layout and even the luxury of it all.

She didn't like that Kurt felt some stupid need to take care of her, but she liked that she lived in a place where Brittany would be safe and wouldn't have to travel far for her job at St. Luke's-Roosevelt in Hell's Kitchen. She knew Kurt would hire a damn car to chauffeur Brit around if she asked. She probably didn't even need to ask.

She liked that Kurt wanted to take care of Brittany, not because Santana couldn't, not because Brittany couldn't take care of herself just fine, but just because he loved her. Although often being accused of selfishness, Kurt was anything but; he was extraordinarily generous with the people he loved.

Despite his cool exterior, she knew he was worried about joining Manhattan SVU, much more concerned about how the team dynamics would shift than anything else. Santana couldn't have cared less. She was there to do a job, an important job, not make friends. Kurt wasn't worried about making friends either, really, but was acutely aware of how they might be received, how the herd mentality of police fell away in the wake of an elite division like SVU, and how their arrival could perhaps negatively alter what was already an incredibly successful squad.

Sure, she and Kurt had a solid track record in Chicago, but both knew they would be expected to prove themselves here. New York was the crème de la crème, even if other jurisdictions felt that to be erroneous or overinflated. Still, no one could deny that the methods and processes used in New York often set the standard for the rest of the country. It was that way in policing and fashion and finance and just about everything else.

Regardless, she was glad to be here. Chicago had become dangerous for several reasons, not the least of which was her stalker and what Kurt had done that dark, wintry night. She was positive no one would ever find out, but it was better to be away from the epicenter of the action. Besides, Brittany had never liked Chicago and had been anxious to leave, and Santana was glad to get Kurt away from that stupid fucking alleged boyfriend once and for all.

She knew she was a sucker for Brittany, but her wife was an inherently good person. That asshole stringing Kurt along had just been using him. What pissed her off was that they all knew it. She knew it, Brittany knew it, and even Kurt knew it, but none of them, not even combined, had been able to pull Kurt out of the relationship. Never had she seen her bestie so dickmatized over a piece of ass and it had frankly scared her.

She shook her head to clear it and exited the Park. She knew by the time she got up to the apartment, Kurt would have coffee and a croissant waiting for her.

Okay, so maybe, sometimes, she kind of liked that he enjoyed taking care of her ungrateful ass too.

* * *

"Any sign of them?" Nick whispered to Amanda, who shook her head.

Fin rolled his eyes. "They're not even due for another hour. They still have to get their badges, their ride, register their weapons ... "

Nick huffed as he placed his coffee on his desk, shrugged out of his blazer, and sat down. "I just want to know what they're like."

"Why so pressed?" Fin demanded. "They're already partners. You're still with Liv, and Rollins and me are continuing our path to awesomeness ... " He paused while exchanging a high five with Amanda. " ... so nothing's going to change."

"He's worried that with Liv becoming CO, he's going to be odd man out," Amanda said, not looking up from her newspaper.

Nick said nothing, but his embarrassment was plain on his face.

"Aw, man," Fin said, flinging a dismissive hand, "Liv's got you. She's not going to abandon you like you're some three-legged dog. Chillax."

"We don't even know if Olivia's position is permanent," Amanda added. "You know they only promoted her to shut up Cragen and because they really couldn't deny her any further without facing a discrimination suit."

"Liv's doing a damn good job," Nick said defensively, "but you know that, after Lewis, they're just looking for an excuse ... "

Amanda bit her lip. It was a valid point.

Fin blew out a breath and sat down. Even the thought of Lewis made his blood boil. He was glad the fucker was dead, but wished he had been able to do it himself. He knew Munch felt the same. He couldn't even imagine what Stabler would have done were he still on the force.

He soured. Stabler. That asshole hadn't even had the courage to pick up a phone and check on Liv after all that mess. What a coward. Fin wanted to drive over to Queens and punch Stabler's ticket in once and for all. First he abandoned Liv after twelve fucking years and then couldn't even call to see how she was doing? Some partner, former or not. He sneered.

"When did those get here?" Nick asked, glancing at the new pair of desks.

Amanda shrugged. "They were already there when I got here _on time_."

He scowled. Fin smirked.

"Why do they get new desks?"

"So they have someplace to work?" suggested an arch Amanda.

"Dude," Finn said, "why are your panties in a twist over this? People come and go. That's SVU, man. This division has one of the highest burnout rates in the entire force."

"You and Liv have been here over a decade," Nick shot back.

"Because me and Benson are fucking awesome."

Amanda nodded. "And that's what's up."

She and Fin exchanged another high five.

"Deliveries for Hummel and Lopez," a voice announced.

The three detectives looked up with interest to find an Asian deliveryman weighted down with two rather large and elaborate floral arrangements.

"You can put them over there," Amanda said, smiling and waving toward the new desks with a hand.

The man did just that, shrugged, and took his leave.

"I wonder who they're from?" she said aloud.

Nick snorted. "With the way 1PP is up their asses, probably the Commissioner."

Olivia strode into the bullpen from her office. "Heads up! They're on their way. Word has it they were just issued their badges and car. Any new cases?" She turned her head. "Nice flowers."

"Nothing new," Fin said, sitting back down.

"What's going on with Champaloux?"

"Rollins and I are doing a follow-up interview today," he said. "Hospital said her sedation should be wearing off soon."

Olivia nodded. "Take Hummel and Lopez with you. Give them some latitude, but keep a tight leash. I want you to pay attention to how they interact with the vic and the kinds of questions they ask. Try to get a handle on their method. Who's the good cop and bad cop, that kind of thing."

Fin and Amanda nodded.

"Apparently Lopez is something of an artist," she continued. "See if she can produce a more accurate sketch than the one currently circulating."

Fin laughed. "You mean better than the one that looks like every generic white dude on Wall Street?"

She smiled. "That's the idea."

"Sergeant Benson?"

They all turned toward the source of the voice and discovered a Latina stomping forward, lips pursed.

"Damn," Fin muttered.

Nick nodded.

Santana had dressed to impress, so she took a moment to preen and toss her ponytail. A fitted white Oxford underneath an equally fitted gray tweed vest and matching slacks, tailored to fit her body, announced to the world at large that she was here, queer, and damn sexy. Her low-heeled black boots were fashionable and well-suited to kicking ass. She was already looking forward to her first chase.

That Kurt was dressed in similar attire and footwear was just gravy, designed to court gossip and speculation. Shit like that was fun.

Her makeup was minimal and demure, her hairstyle a high ponytail which snaked halfway down her back. She could easily pin it up in a bun or chignon if required, but the ponytail accentuated the undercover dominatrix cum constipated English schoolmarm look she was going for.

She sent a dismissive look at Tutola and Amaro, having studied their profiles, and focused instead on Benson, her immediate supervisor and a woman with whom she had become reluctantly impressed. What she saw was a tall, gorgeous woman aware of beauty but unencumbered by it; compassionate eyes which were haunted and resigned, but still retained a spark of fire that suggested she wouldn't put up with any bullshit; and a moral certitude that was awesome to behold.

Olivia Benson believed in the law she had sworn to uphold, but she was driven by the pursuit of justice, to which she knew the law was often an impediment.

Santana liked her, but would never tell her so. She wanted to impress her, but would never be obvious about it. She wanted her approval and the idea that she might not receive it bothered her.

"Detective Lopez," Olivia said, nodding her head and shaking the other woman's hand firmly. "Welcome to Manhattan SVU."

"It's our privilege to be here," Santana replied, stepping aside to make room for Kurt, who studied Olivia with bald appraisal.

Somehow, in some manner which Santana could never hope to comprehend, Olivia simply stared back at Kurt in an absurdly placid manner, as though she were perfectly content to be the subject of his scrutiny.

"Good morning, Sergeant Benson," he said quietly. "It is my honor to meet you. I have heard nothing but glowing commentary about you."

Olivia paused, now doing some studying of her own. This man set off all kinds of alarms within her.

His language was overly formal and precise, carefully constructed, which was often the sign of someone fearful of their words not being clearly comprehended. He spoke softly, forcing the listener to strain to hear him and pay attention to what he was saying - a smart and useful investigative and interrogation technique. His eye contact was borderline creepy; he didn't appear to blink and it was though all of his attention was focused only on her, that she could never hope to disengage him and that perhaps not even an earthquake could accomplish that feat.

His eyes were the like of which she had never before seen. They were fascinating, a color she could never hope to name. They seemed to absorb and radiate light simultaneously.

They were arresting. You simply couldn't look away from them, from him, until or unless he encouraged you to do so.

This was perhaps the most quietly unassuming yet most assuredly commanding presence she had found herself standing before.

"Commentary from whom?" she asked, raising a brow.

A smile, so small she couldn't be sure it had actually appeared, flitted across his face. "My cousin, Alexandra Cabot."

Olivia was obviously surprised but nonetheless pleased. "Alex is your cousin?" she asked with considerably more warmth.

He nodded. "I didn't tell her about the transfer until we were already here. I didn't want anyone to presume she had pulled strings to get me the position." His eyes met hers. "I have assured her that I will do nothing to compromise her ethics or her docket. I therefore request that you allow me to recuse myself from any case which will eventually be tried by her. Even the vaguest hint of impropriety is all a smart defense attorney needs."

"You're right," she said plainly, "and I appreciate your willingness to step aside." She held out her hand, which he shook. She was pleased to note that he hadn't limp-wristed her out of deference to her gender. His grip was firm, strong, dry, and assured.

"Of course," he said.

She nodded and turned toward the rest of her team. "These are Detectives Fin Tutola, Nick Amaro, and ..."

"... Amanda Rollins," Kurt finished, smiling at the woman and stepping forward to shake her hand.

"You remember me?" asked a surprised Amanda. "From a seminar with five hundred students over three years ago?"

He grinned. "I have an eidetic memory, but even if I didn't, I'd remember the woman who asked intelligent, thoughtful questions and was one of the very few who not only read the assigned text, but supplemental readings. You were honestly the best student in the class, scored the highest on the exam, and made it clear just how much you valued this profession."

Amanda stared at him as a blush slowly spread across her cheeks.

"I had no idea you had transferred to Manhattan SVU," he lied, "but I look forward to working with you."

"Likewise," she smiled.

"Word has it you're a shrink," Fin said.

Kurt nodded. "I have an advanced degree in forensic psychology. I look forward to putting it to use."

Olivia frowned. "You didn't in Chicago?"

He grimaced. "To be honest, Sergeant ..."

"Call me Olivia." She noted he looked uncomfortable at the thought. She didn't get the sense that he was a slave to the chain-of-command; it was more likely he wanted to demarcate clearly their professional lines.

He gave her a gruff nod. "Chicago Central is overworked and understaffed and ..."

"That's bullshit," Santana interrupted. "The fact of the matter is that our superior officers had no interest in paying any attention to what they deemed _unproven crackpot theories offered by overeducated upstarts_ who they believed were after their jobs." She shrugged. "Didn't matter to them that Kurt was trained by one of the best profilers in the FBI. He was too intelligent, too intellectual, and frankly too gay for them to be bothered."

Fin liked this woman. Kept shit real, didn't apologize for her mouth, and didn't seem to give a fuck what anyone thought of her. Yeah, he could work with her. The dude, on the other hand ...

He could see Hummel being related to Cabot, drinking the wine Warner was always waxing poetic about, and having philosophical debates with Barba. It didn't put him off, though; if anything, he was glad to have one of them on his side for a change.

Olivia scowled. The idea that fellow officers would so casually disregard information that could be used to prosecute offenders deeply offended her.

"That won't be an issue here," she assured him. "We haven't had a profiler for a number of years and your assistance will be vital to our success. I want you to know that I will always be open to what you have to say. I may not always agree with your opinion or might ask you to clarify certain points, but your insight and experience is very welcome."

"Thank you," muttered a startled Kurt.

Fin narrowed his eyes, his thoughts on his own son, who was also gay. He could only imagine what someone like Hummel, quiet and thoughtful, would have endured from, well, from cops like him. Damn.

"FBI, huh?"

"Yes," Kurt said. "I was trained by Samantha Waters."

It was as though time stopped.

"Samantha Waters?" Amanda repeated, her voice distant. She had been in the academy in Atlanta when the Jack-of-All-Trades had kidnapped Dr. Waters after years of tormenting her. She remembered the media coverage and the public outcry. Cadets had been pulled from training to help search the city, which had all but been shut down.

Kurt nodded. "She was overseeing me at Quantico." He smiled. "I wasn't the only one impressed by you."

Her mouth fell open. "She's why I studied forensics. She's why I went into the academy."

"I know. So does she."

Amanda blinked owlishly.

Olivia cleared her throat. "I didn't know Dr. Waters was still with the Bureau."

"Technically, she's not," Kurt said. "She consults when interested."

"She came out of retirement to train you," Santana barked. "That means something."

Hell, yeah, it did, the others thought.

Kurt was obviously bothered by the attention, which Olivia filed away for later contemplation. She turned toward Santana. "I understand you have a Master's in Public Policy."

"Yeah."

"I'm sure you're aware that several of our high-profile cases tend to go regional, if not national. When that happens, I would appreciate your input in our relations with the public." She curled a lip. "Too often, 1PP trots me out because to make appeals and disseminate information because I'm a woman and they believe the public is more likely to sympathize with me."

She shook her head. "Whatever. I hate the press and they've become overly fascinated with me. I never know what to tell them and inevitably I'm criticized by the brass for however I handle it."

Santana shrugged a shoulder. "Yeah, okay. I did some of that at Central because I could then repeat the appeals in Spanish."

"You're bilingual," Olivia said. "That always helps. Nick is fluent in Spanish and I'm passable, but I am fluent in Italian."

Santana nodded. "Between us, Kurt and I speak over fifteen languages, so let us know if you need press releases or interpreters."

"Fifteen?" Nick asked faintly.

"We each speak the Romantic languages," Kurt said, "but only Santana can speak Romanian. She also knows Basque and Catalan, as well as Russian. I can also speak German, Polish, Czech, and am passable in Afrikaans."

"My wife speaks most of the Scandinavian languages," Santana added, "as well as Chinese and Japanese, so, yeah. Whatever."

"It's like the fucking United Nations," Fin marveled.

Santana scoffed. "Screw that. We actually get shit done."

He burst out laughing.

"Liv," a voice interrupted, "I have the toxicology reports on ... Kurt?"

"Melinda!"

The others, save Santana, stared as Hummel and Medical Examiner Melinda Warner flew into each other's arms.

"I take it you know each other?" Olivia drawled.

"I've been knowing this boy since he learned to walk!" Melinda laughed. "What are you doing here, baby?"

"Santana and I just transferred in," he replied, unwilling to relinquish her just yet.

Her eyes widened to the size of saucers. "You're going to be working Manhattan SVU? Does Alex know?"

"She does now."

She stared at him. He fidgeted and finally looked away. "Uh huh."

"So you know each other through Cabot?" Nick asked.

Melinda shook her head. "Kurt and I are almost family. Olivia, you remember my cousin Camille Saroyan?"

Olivia blinked. "The Head of the Medico-Legal Division of the Jeffersonian? Yeah, Mel, I remember her."

"Well, she's Kurt's aunt. Cam and I are related through her mother, while she and Kurt are related through her father."

"You're black?" a confused Fin asked Kurt.

"No. It doesn't get much whiter than me. Aunt Cam is biracial."

"Wait," Amanda said, holding up a hand. "You're related to Alexandra Cabot and Camille Saroyan, know Melinda Warner, and were trained by Samantha Waters? Is this real life?"

Melinda smirked and bumped Kurt's shoulder. "Go on, kid, tell them who your other cousin is."

Kurt bit his lip. "That usually doesn't go over very well."

"Well now you have to tell us," said an amused Olivia, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Brenda Johnson."

"I need to take a seat," Fin announced, and proceeded to do just that.

"So what's your claim to fame?" Nick asked Santana.

She pointed at Kurt. "Him. Oh, and being awesome."


	3. Binary Pair

Fin checked the rearview mirror to make sure Lopez was keeping up with him, which she was doing with ease. The woman had received advanced training in defensive driving and he figured if it had been good enough for Chicago, it was good enough for New York.

They had decided to take two cars on the chance they might receive a new case while interviewing last night's victim. Should that happen, Rollins would meet Liv and Amaro at the scene, leaving Fin to supervise the new detectives.

"So what you think?" he casually asked Amanda, who merely shrugged.

He rolled his eyes. "Girl, please. I saw the way your eyes lit up when he remembered you."

She was silent for a moment. "I was surprised, but I guess I shouldn't have been. Knowing now that he has an eidetic memory makes a lot of sense." She turned toward him. "You should have seen him at Quantico, Fin. He memorized the names of the entire class - five hundred students. If they were married or had children, he knew those names too. He knew where they were from, their positions in their respective forces, and somehow knew their real motives for being there, whether it was just for the credit or because they were truly interested."

She turned back and stared out the windshield. "He was a good teacher. I learned a lot from him, not only the class material but how to be a professional. How to try and remain objective when you're staring into the pits of hell. He's a good cop."

Fin said nothing but listened keenly. In many ways, Rollins was still so new, but he respected her gut instincts. She was usually right. The problem was that she too often paid attention to her intuition without thinking of the constraints of her job and the ramifications for going outside it.

"He reminds you of Ken, huh?" she asked gently. She knew she was taking a chance bringing up Fin's son, but it was fairly obvious that Kurt reminded her partner of the kid. If Fin wanted her to back off, she would.

"Yeah," he sighed after a long pause. "You saw how defensive Lopez was of him, right? That just means there was a reason she needed to be. You and I can both imagine how someone like Hummel was treated by cops, by his own fucking team."

She gritted her teeth and looked down. Yeah, she could imagine it and the fact that she knew him personally, no matter how tangentially, made her all the more bothered for it. The fact of the matter was that despite integration and gender inclusion, police, no matter the force, was still a good old boys' network. Whites resented blacks, men resented women, straights resented gays, and so on. But one of the most divisive roadblocks was education.

In the modern police world, if you wanted to get ahead, a degree was requisite, but those who had come the ranks back in the day were understandably annoyed that people younger and less experienced than they were being promoted over them. Sure, most forces offered educational assistance for those who wanted to pursue a degree, but the demands of the job and the irregular hours often made it impossible.

She had worked hard in college. The forensics track had tested her mettle but she had triumphed. Still, after she had applied to the academy and been accepted, many in her cohort who had only a high school diploma had looked upon her with scorn and envy, particularly the men. She could only imagine how Hummel and Lopez, both of whom had graduate degrees, had been viewed.

"Still," Fin continued, snapping her out of her thoughts, "what you think matters to me. What Warner thinks matters to me. Melinda is a total pro and doesn't suffer fools gladly. Almost related or not, if she thought he was shit, she'd warn us." He shrugged. "She didn't."

Not for the first time, Amanda wondered as to the precise nature of Fin's relationship with Warner, as well as what he'd like it to become.

"And Lopez?"

"She's got a pair," he said, "just like you and Liv do. We need that in SVU, especially with Amaro so dead-set on becoming the next Stabler."

Ah, Amanda thought, the mysterious and elusive Elliot Stabler. She'd never before heard so much about someone she'd never met. "It should be fun to watch her yank his chain," she said, attempting to inject some levity in the conversation.

He laughed.

* * *

"How do you want to handle it?" Kurt asked his partner.

"You take point," she said easily. "You do interviews much better than I do."

He frowned. "I think we should wait and see. She might prefer discussing her attack with a female officer."

Santana shrugged. "Okay, we'll play it by ear. Benson wanted me to try and get a sketch, though, so it would be easier if you took the interview and freed me up."

He nodded.

"So what do you think so far?"

He held a pregnant pause. "I like them," he said finally. "Particularly Benson."

"She's cool," she agreed. "What about Rollins?"

"I knew we'd be working with her." They had both compiled and exchanged dossiers on their soon-to-be colleagues. "She was good in class, but I'll reserve judgment until I see her in the field. She does have a lot of promise, though."

Santana internally agreed. "And the guys?"

"Amaro is a hothead," he said plainly. "It's probably a good thing he's partnered with Benson. She's a bleeding heart but understands the necessity of protocol." He fell silent for a moment. "But I think they're very much the same when it comes down to it. I wouldn't be surprised if one or both of them has operated outside their purview on multiple occasions and the other covered their partner's tracks."

Her assessment was pretty much the same. "Well, it's not like you or I would know anything about that," she said haughtily.

He smirked. "Right. We're as pure as the yellow-driven snow."

* * *

Santana screeched into the parking space beside Fin's ride at Bellevue Hospital. She and Fin stomped toward the entrance as Amanda and Kurt brought up the rear, exchanging smiles.

After a terse elevator ride, shared with an elderly woman who insisted Santana was Carmen Miranda and demanded a dance, they arrived on the floor which currently housed their victim.

"What do we know?" Santana snapped.

"Female victim, age thirty," Amanda recited. "Her name's Chloé Champaloux, a French national here on a work visa for the Bank of the World. She's a systems engineer. Last night she was found in an abandoned building adjacent to the Lincoln Center. Beaten and raped. No alcohol or other drugs found in her system. Weapon was most likely an aluminum baseball bat. We're still waiting on DNA."

"How long has she been in the States?" Kurt asked.

"Just under a month," Fin said.

Kurt sighed. "Welcome to New York."

* * *

After checking in at the nurses' station and waiting for the victim to get ready to see them, Kurt quickly looked over her chart he had purloined from the tray beside her door.

"You actually understand that?" Fin asked.

Kurt gave an absent nod.

"He was premed," Santana said. "Took the MCAT and nailed it. Medical school was always his dream. He wanted to become a pathologist like his aunt."

"So what happened?" asked a curious Amanda.

"At the end of my junior year at Brown," Kurt said quietly, flipping a page, "my boyfriend disappeared, taken from our apartment. There was a rash of similar crimes throughout Providence. No one could ever figure out how the UNSUB got into the building, how they avoided the cameras, and how they got my boyfriend out of the apartment in the middle of broad daylight with absolutely no one seeing."

Amanda and Fin were rapt with attention.

"There was no forensic evidence, nothing that didn't belong to one of us. There was never any ransom demand. They never found his body or the bodies of the others, though they've since been presumed dead. The officers assigned to the case were overworked and not especially interested. Apparently college kids disappear all the time. They can't take the stress, are tired of trying to please their parents, want a fresh start.

"They never could explain why his wallet, keys, phone, and clothes hadn't been touched. Or why his car was still in the garage. Or why his bank accounts never had any activity."

Kurt turned and looked into Fin's eyes. "He was just another gay kid. That's how they saw him. That's how they referred to him, even in a city as progressive as Providence. And all they saw me as was a spurned suitor. We had been engaged, you see, and they felt he didn't really want to marry me, so he left." He shrugged. "That there were five other cases didn't seem to matter."

"Fuck," Fin muttered, shaking his head.

"I'm so sorry," Amanda whispered.

"His parents never got over it. He was their only child. I never got over it, either. I probably never will. My mother died when I was young and my father while I was still in high school, but this was a grief I had never experienced, had never expected. But I learned a lot from those officers."

He clenched his jaw. "I learned that true grief is personal. It can't be shared. No two people have the same relationship with someone. I learned that compassion and empathy are learned arts and that not everyone can be bothered to study them. I learned that with professions like ours, just showing up isn't enough. And I learned the people left behind are doomed to question and wonder and grieve for as long as they live. No amount of therapy, no amount of meditation or yoga or happy thoughts or Prozac will fill that gaping hole inside of you.

"So that's why I do this. Because I have to. Because to do nothing would be worse than losing him. I do this to honor him, to honor his parents and my parents. I do it because it's the only thing keeping me sane. And I'm damned good at it."

"Then let's get in there and help this woman," Santana said, blinking rapidly.

"His name was Mike," Kurt murmured, looking down at the floor. "Mike Chang. He was twenty-one years, seven months, and fifteen days old."

He didn't mention the hour, minute, and second of when Mike disappeared, but he knew those too.

* * *

Chloé Champaloux was truly uninterested in speaking with the police regarding her attack. She just wanted to put it out of her mind, call the airport, and book the next ticket back to Paris. She had been so stupid to come here. Her family had warned her about the United States, of New York in particular, but for so long she had been in love with the glamour and the legend of the Big Apple.

Now it just felt like a big prison, one from which she would never escape. She couldn't believe this had happened to her, that she had allowed it to happen. She wasn't naive. She wasn't some rube from a small village. She wasn't weak or helpless.

But she had been last night. Before she had even known what was happening, there had been a hand over her mouth and she was being dragged into an empty building, the kind which existed only in nightmares, only for that hellhole to spawn nightmares of its own.

She watched listlessly as the officers entered the room. The first two, the black man and the blond woman, she recognized from last night. The next to enter was another woman, this one Spanish, though she looked the kind who hailed from South America, not Spain. Finally, another man entered. He looked younger than the rest, though she assumed he was at least the same age as the Spanish woman. Then she did a double take.

Kurt Hummel.

Kurt Hummel was in her room. Kurt Hummel was a police officer.

" _Mon Seigneur Delacroix?_ " she asked in confusion.

Kurt paused in his step and averted his eyes. Oh, terrific.

He didn't need to look at Santana to know she was smirking at him.

Kurt immediately decided the best course of action was to conduct the interview in French. He justified it to himself by mentally arguing Chloé would be more comfortable speaking her native language, unfettered by the constraints of English, no matter her fluency. Santana would be able to follow easily and, hopefully, Fin and Amanda would disregard the title by which she had addressed him.

He knew it was a futile hope. His colleagues were already regarding him with curiosity.

He greeted her quietly in French, explained they would speak her language in order to obtain the most accurate account, introduced his fellow officers, and detailed what he hoped the interview would accomplish.

He didn't need to be psychic to recognize her reticence, her inherent unwillingness to cooperate. He knew she was ashamed, though her conscience was warring with her emotions to compel her to realize she was not at fault. He knew she was reviewing her attire that evening, her demeanor, searching for any unconscious signals she might have been broadcasting, desperate to know why the man had chosen her, how he knew she would be there alone at that precise time.

But he _was_ psychic and able to pluck images from her mind with ease.

He asked if he might sit next to her and she nodded her ascent. He explained that Santana would attempt to draw a portrait of her attacker to help them catch him. He stressed that it was imperative she be completely honest and truthful in her account, that no one here judged her and only wished to help her.

He had said the same words to countless survivors over the years, but it never got any easier. His sense of outrage never abated. His thirst for justice was never quenched. He was determined to get justice for this woman.

He told her to close her eyes. He told her to take all of her emotions - her fear, her shame, her helplessness - and to squeeze them into a ball. After she had done this, when asked, she replied that the color of the ball was yellow. He then told her to focus only on her anger - at what was done to her, at this man's impertinence, at the probability he had done this before and would do so again, and compress it. Then she was to wrap it around the ball tightly. The ball was now red.

He commanded she picture the face of her attacker in her mind and then throw the ball at him. When she did so, she was surprised that the man caught it reflexively.

Now look at him, Kurt instructed. She must look at him as the pathetic creature that he was. She was to allow that glowing ball of writhing emotion to highlight his every feature so that nothing was left in shadow. She had to dispel the mystery and the darkness her fear had insisted were present and instead see him for the coward he truly was.

She curled a lip as the image coalesced in her mind. Her hands were clenched so tightly her nails drew blood from her palms.

What was his race?

How tall was he? How much did he weigh?

What was the shape of his face? Round? Heart? Oval?

Were his features in proportion?

How big were his ears? Did they have any piercings? Did he have detached or attached lobes?

What color were his eyebrows? The same as his hair, or lighter or darker? What shape were they? Thick or thin?

Did he have prominent cheekbones or a baby face? Was the complexion fair or tan? Blotchy? Ruddy? Did his skin have blemishes? Any prominent scars? Did he have any facial tattoos?

What color were his eyes? What were their shape? Did he have long eyelashes? Were his eyes bulbous? Deep-set? Beady? Feline? Did they have dark circles? How distant were they from his nose?

His nose. Long or short? Pointed or snub? Somewhere in between? Thin or flat? Bridge? Bump or hook? Were his nostrils average, or were they too large or too small for his nose? The philtrum, the space between nose and mouth, was it large? Small?

What color were his lips? Were they full or thin? Pouty or tight? Cracked or smooth? What color were his teeth? Was he missing teeth? What the shape of his teeth - rounded or squared or pointed? Did he have braces or other obvious orthodontic work? What did his breath smell like?

Was he clean shaven or did he have a beard? A moustache? A goatee? A five o'clock shadow?

A strong or weak chin? Abnormally sized? A cleft?

What was he wearing? What colors were his garments? What material were they? Had they any odor? Shoes? Athletic? Dress? Sandals?

Had the man himself any odor? Soap? Cologne? Body odor? Alcohol? Cigarettes? Marijuana?

Did he have any tattoos she had seen? Neck, arms, hands, legs, chest, torso? Scars?

She answered in simple declarative statements. Kurt translated for Fin and Amanda as Santana's charcoal pencil flew wildly across her pad. Finally, he turned to Santana who nodded.

"Open your eyes," Kurt whispered.

"I don't want to," Chloé whispered. "Here, in my mind, I have all the power. I see him for what he is. But once I open my eyes, he'll be in darkness again."

"You've dragged his sorry carcass into the light," Santana said. "You don't have to fear him anymore. Use your anger. Let it fuel you. Now it's your turn. We're going to catch this son of a bitch and make him your victim."

Chloé's eyes opened and turned toward her. "I like that idea."

Slowly, Santana held up her pad and turned it to show Chloé the sketch.

"That's him," Chloé hissed. "That's the animal."

Kurt patted her hand reassuringly. "And now we're going to find him and make him pay."

She frowned. "He said something. A quote of some kind, but I can't precisely remember. Something about bitter death and nets."

Kurt narrowed his eyes. "And I find more bitter than death the woman whose heart is snares and nets, and her hands as bands: whoso pleaseth God shall escape from her; but the sinner shall be taken by her."

Chloé nodded as Santana growled and cursed in Spanish.

"Ecclesiastes; Chapter Seven, Verse Twenty-Six," Amanda said.

"This asshole honestly thinks he's some kind of martyr?" a furious Fin demanded. "He's trying to blame this woman for _his_ actions?"

"A story as old as time," Kurt said flatly. He turned to Chloé and gave her an encouraging smile. "But we're going to rewrite this ending. Let's see how bitter he finds a prison sentence."

She gripped his hand. "Thank you," she warbled. She closed her eyes. "Thank you."

* * *

"I'm telling you, Liv," Amanda said back at the precinct, "I've never seen anything like this. His interview technique is amazing and unique to him."

Fin nodded. "His game is on point. He guided her with the questions, but never coaxed her answers. He framed them so that she only had to say yes or no. He gave her no room to prevaricate or doubt herself. He got from her in twenty minutes the best damn description of a perp I've ever heard in twenty years."

Olivia blinked owlishly. "So by controlling the questions, he allowed her to control the responses."

Amanda nodded. "The way she responded to him ... Liv, I've never seen anything like it. It wasn't transference, it was like ..."

"Like he pulled the images from her head," Fin said. "As though he could see the perp and just needed her to confirm his suspicions. He then walked her through the events of the attack and she gave a blow-by-blow account. I've never taken a statement like that! The amount of detail he got her to provide? I've never taken so many fucking notes in my life! And she wasn't worried that he didn't or wouldn't believe her, was second-guessing her or trying to trip her up. You could tell she didn't feel judged by him or scared of him."

"And Lopez's sketch is amazing," Amanda continued. "It looks like she drew it from a photograph. If we can find a match, good luck to his defense attorney trying to play the usual shaky eyewitness card. There's just too much detail for it to be dismissed as dumb luck."

"How do they work together?" Olivia asked. "What's their method?"

"I've only seen it once before," Fin said, "with you and Stabler, but they take it even further. The trust those two have for each other is absolute. You know how I said it was like Hummel was pulling the images from the vic's mind?"

She nodded.

"Well, if I didn't know better, I'd damn well say Hummel and Lopez can read each other's thoughts. I'm not talking about the kind of relationship where you just know someone really well. I mean, like, telepathy or some shit. They were in total sync. They were speaking without words."

Amanda agreed. "I guess when you've been that close to someone for twenty years, both personally and professionally, it happens, but it was kind of eerie to witness."

"Final verdict?" Olivia pressed.

"They're good," Fin said. "Damn good. They impressed the hell out of me. And for them to hit it out of the park like that on their first try? Shit."

"Makes me wonder why they really left Chicago," Amanda added. "If it was just because their superiors just didn't like them, those people are fools. You don't turn away policing like this. You don't sneer at these kinds of results."

"There wasn't any of that good cop, bad cop shit, either," Fin said. "They're two people working as one. There were times when one would start to pose a question and the other would finish it. More than once, they asked the same damn question at the exact same time with the exact same intonation."

A startled Olivia turned to Amanda for confirmation, raising her brows when the woman nodded.

"Fin's right. Two people working as one. I couldn't describe it any better than that."

"But Hummel led the interview?" she asked.

"I don't know if that's their usual M.O. or if it was decided before we got to the hospital," Fin said, "but he took point. Still, she was right there to back him up. He asked every possible question I could think of, but she followed up with more I'd never even considered."

"I wouldn't describe either of them as warm and fuzzy," Amanda said, "but he has a way with victims, or at least with this one. She responded to him immediately. There was no hesitation, no reticence."

"Yeah," Fin said, "but what the hell did she call him at the beginning?"

Amanda shrugged. "Monsignor? But that's a religious term. And then some French name."

" _Mon seigneur_ ," Olivia corrected.

"Yeah," Fin said. "What the hell's that?"

"She recognized him," she said. "After you left this morning, I did a little research. Not too much turned up on Lopez other than what we already knew. There was a lot more on Hummel, though." She reached across her desk and snatched up a file, holding it out to them.

Amanda snatched and opened it, Fin reading over her shoulder. She looked up and stared at Olivia. "He's royalty?"

"Nobility," Olivia said. " _Mon seigneur_ translates to _my Lord_ , the appropriate greeting for a French duke."

Fin balked. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

She shook her head. "Check out his address. He and Lopez share the apartment, along with her wife."

Amanda's eyes bulged. "Columbus Circle? They live in the goddamn Time Warner building?"

"How much money does this dude _have?_ " Finn wondered.

"More than any of us could ever hope to lay eyes or hands on," Olivia said. "Millions. Hundreds of millions. He's a direct descendent of Charlemagne. He's an only child of only children. In fact, the mother's side was mostly only children, so the money just continued to grow and pass from one generation to the next.

"Hummel inherited his title after his grandmother died ten years ago. He hasn't done anything with it. It's not like it affords him much power, but Europe takes royals and nobles seriously, at least somewhat. They're tabloid fodder. The further up his family tree you go, you see nothing but kings and queens."

"Then why the fuck did he grow up in Nowhere, Ohio?" Finn barked.

She shrugged. "His mother was a French national, a member of the aristocracy. She came here for college and fell in love, got married, and had a baby. She died young, ovarian cancer. Kurt's father died in Kurt's senior year, and then at college..."

"He told us about his boyfriend," Amanda said sadly.

"Money doesn't buy happiness," Olivia murmured. She cleared her throat. "I'd prefer you not relay any of this to Amaro. I'll tell him when I think he's ready. Don't think I haven't noticed how tetchy he is about Hummel and Lopez. This would just be adding fuel to the fire."

Fin blew out a long breath as Amanda rolled her eyes.

"Man, he's already bent out of shape," Fin complained. "After we got back, Hummel went to see Warner about the forensics for the case while Lopez began running her sketch through facial recognition software. She pretty much ordered Amaro to search VICAP for similar crimes."

"Do you think he'll find any?" Olivia asked. "You think this perp is a serial?"

Amanda shrugged. "It's like Kurt said: zealots are peculiar and particular. That quote wasn't random. It's ritual. It's not accidental; it's method."

A thoughtful Olivia nodded. "I'm glad we got a shrink on the roster. We've been flailing since Huang left for the FBI."

Fin turned and looked out the window. "I'm surprised Cabot hasn't come stomping down here for a family reunion."

Olivia laughed. "She was here earlier with Casey and very put out that Kurt was in the field. She's the one who sent him the flowers this morning, by the way. Santana's were from her wife."

Amanda raised a brow.

Olivia rolled her eyes. "So I looked at the cards. It's called being a detective. I was _detecting_."


	4. Balancing Equations

Six months had passed since Hummel and Lopez had joined the squad and Olivia was more than pleased with the results. Granted, there had been a lot of fanfare and quite a bit of scoffing in the beginning, but as time passed and fruit had been borne, no one could argue that her newest recruits were less than anything but superlative detectives.

Hummel and Lopez's clearance rate had leveled out at above ninety-five percent. They were the most successful partnership in the borough and in every SVU department in the City. They had already earned two citations of merit from 1PP and the brass bent over backwards to keep them happy. Sure, it meant there was more than the usual scrutiny upon her, but Olivia was frankly happy for the interest.

And the fact that she could bask, even unwillingly, in their reflected glory didn't hurt. Lopez and Hummel had made it clear more than once to the higher-ups that she was instrumental in their success. She didn't believe it to be true, but after the first three times, she had given up trying to dissuade them to claim otherwise.

It was rather nice, she thought, to have the support of the big guns. She'd never a recipient before; certainly not as a detective and definitely not since she had become command. All of a sudden, people with more bars on their sleeves than she could count wanted to take her to lunch. She was invited to give speeches to political bigwigs and had offered several guest lectures at the academy. She hated almost all of it, but couldn't deny the results.

Her budgets were now always approved, as was overtime. The Mayor knew her by name and sight and often asked for her input on cause célèbs, even if they weren't her cases or had no special victim. She was wading into the political machine against her will, but she was surviving. What had once been one of her greatest fears had become something almost bearable.

Amaro was naturally furious, of course, but that was really no surprise and Olivia was past caring. She didn't know whether his problem was that he believed he was being upstaged by upstarts or if he had an inferiority complex. She knew his situation at home was untenable; his wife had initiated divorce proceedings, they had been finalized, and she had gone for sole custody. Thankfully, she hadn't gotten it.

Unfortunately Amaro's past mistakes were well-documented and had lent considerable support to her cause. He was a hothead. He had more than one note in his file for brutality. She had guessed Amaro and Rollins had been an item, but apparently it had run its course and Amaro hadn't been the one to break it off. He was making things difficult for Amanda and appeared to have no regard for his treatment of her, which was pissing Fin off in huge ways.

Fin had always been protective of his partners, but he was almost parental with Amanda who, surprisingly, didn't find his support annoying or cumbersome. They worked very well together, complimented each other's best traits and smoothed out each other's rough edges. Her forensic skills coupled with his street smarts made them a formidable team, and while they might not have enjoyed the success of Hummel and Lopez, they were regarded somewhat as superstars within the precinct.

Hummel and Lopez had become her eye in the hurricane and she honestly didn't know how to feel about that. She'd never had to rein them in as she had Amaro and, in some circumstances, Fin and Amanda. Hummel and Lopez just went quietly about their business, closed cases, and then went home to do whatever it is they did. She still wasn't sure just what that was, really. She knew almost nothing about their private lives.

In fact, she really didn't need to manage them at all. They knew points of law better than most attorneys and their methods had never been challenged in court. They were a prosecutor's dream. Evidence was always bagged, tagged, and unrefuted. Hummel was a star on the stand. He kept his cool, always, and remained completely unruffled, despite the best efforts of some of the more assiduous defense attorneys. His calm demeanor and profile abilities made him a valuable witness.

The cases on which he was lead detective were those that most often requested a deal, just because the defense didn't wish to cross-examine him. He'd only had to recuse himself from a case once, and that was because Alex was prosecuting and wanted no conflicts of interest. Casey loved him. Barba absolutely adored him. Kurt had earned him four major convictions that brought a lot of press and accolades. Barba always sent flowers.

Hummel often took the lead when their cases went to trial. Lopez was just as competent but more fiery. She wasn't the hothead Amaro was, but she was passionate and had no compunction about calling out defense attorneys on their perceived racism, sexism, or privilege when they tried to bait her. Her performances went over well with juries and the press worshipped her, but she had come close to being censured more than once. She had been held in contempt three times and was always more than content to sit in jail and wait until the judge bowed to political and internal pressures to release her.

She looked out of her window into the bullpen, unsurprised to see Hummel and Lopez already hard at work an hour early. They were both obsessed with their first case at Manhattan SVU, which had regrettably gone cold. They had worked the clues to exhaustion but, unfortunately, the assailant appeared to be transient. He had never again struck in New York, for which Olivia was thankful, though she empathized with their frustration.

They had never managed to unearth any similar attacks in VICAP, but one of Kurt's contacts in Interpol had found the signature in several of Europe's capital cities. Their case was apparently the only one in the States. Kurt's profile offered that the perp was most likely a member of some foreign navy; a search of the records indicated that nine different ships had docked in New York that week, with a suspect pool totaling over three thousand men. It was the proverbial needle in a haystack, not that it stopped Hummel.

He had taken the lack of closure hard and felt as though he had personally failed the victim. Despite the fact that Chloé Champaloux had absolved him completely, he was offended by the stalling of the case and continued to spend his free time pursuing it. Olivia understood the obsession and didn't have the heart to reprimand him. Besides, he wasn't accruing hours looking into it and what he did in his off-time wasn't her business. She suspected he had paid for Champaloux's return ticket to Paris but, again, it wasn't her business, so she said nothing.

Lopez was just as dedicated but her zeal was tempered. She doubted they would ever find the assailant, but she did whatever Kurt asked, entering the profile and forensic results into every criminal database she could find. Even if the asshole was never caught here, the information could still lead to an arrest elsewhere. Then extradition was a possibility.

The weird thing was, Olivia was positive both Hummel and Lopez knew more about the case than they admitted. Their search parameters were so specific, far more than for which the account and sketch could account.

But that was ridiculous, certainly. The victim was positive her attacker was unknown to her and the sketch was so detailed that if she had recognized the perp, she would have identified him.

So what was it that Hummel was so sure he knew?

It was odd. _They_ were odd.

They produced tremendous results, always backed up by irrefutable evidence, but some of their leaps of logic totally escaped Olivia's understanding. Hummel and Lopez claimed hunches, but she felt these were excuses more than anything. She had to sign off on all of their reports and had questioned more than once how they had arrived at their conclusions. When she brought it to their attention, they redrafted their reports and the edits always made sense of their process.

But Olivia had a phenomenal bullshit detector and knew something was off. That she hadn't dug deeper, hadn't ever really called them on it, suggested to her, at least, that she really didn't want to know the answers.

She watched with an interested eye as Amanda and Fin breezed in, Fin and Kurt exchanging some complicated handshake greeting only they understood. She was pleased the men got along so well. She had been initially worried that Fin's gruff demeanor would put Kurt off, but Fin had expressed his appreciation for Kurt's method. Kurt liked Fin's approach and no bullshit policy. They worked well together when they were infrequently paired and appeared to be actual friends.

Santana and Amanda worked well together too, but their relationship was one of colleagues rather than friends. In contrast, Kurt and Amanda got on like a house on fire and spent a lot of time together off the clock. Santana didn't appear to be jealous, for which Olivia was thankful. The one piece of personal information she had been able to ferret out was that Santana's wife had a ticking biological clock and Santana wasn't really too interested. From what Olivia had been able to gather, Kurt was somewhat caught in the middle.

Nick sauntered in and greeted the others, Kurt only perfunctorily, and flirted heavily with Santana, who was disgusted. Frankly, Olivia was disgusted, as well. Santana was happily married and Nick was being a real asshole with his disrespect. She sincerely hoped he wasn't one of those idiot men who felt lesbians could _change_ by being introduced to the right penis. The last thing she needed was Lopez filing a sexual harassment charge, because Olivia knew she would be supporting her female detective in the claim.

She supposed it was time to take him aside again and up the ante. His complete dismissal of Kurt and general surliness of the man in general was obnoxious. Olivia didn't know if Nick was homophobic or if he just resented Kurt and the friendships he enjoyed with women, but she didn't much care either. His behavior was beginning to fray at the edges of the rest of her team and she wasn't about to abide it.

She sighed and gulped down what remained of her coffee.

* * *

Two hours later, Kurt finished the report on their most recent case and gave it a final read.

He liked paperwork. It had become something of a ritual for him and he was soothed by the practice. After editing the last sentences, he printed out a copy for him and Santana to sign and then turn over to Sergeant Benson. He scrawled his named on it and passed it to Santana, who grunted, shoved the last of her donut in her mouth, and signed it, not even bothering to read it.

Kurt pursed his lips. She never read them. It didn't really bother him; he supposed he should be flattered by the level of trust she evinced in him. And she was lazy.

He gave her the stink-eye. She offered a cheesy grin, a half-masticated Boston cream pie on full display, and batted her eyes. His eyes tightened as he heard Amanda and Fin's soft snickers. He smiled and rattled off something in Spanish. Santana choked on her donut as Nick snorted his coffee and winced even as he burst into hysterical laughter.

"What's so funny?" Olivia asked.

"Paperwork," Kurt drawled.

She blinked. "Yeah, okay."

"What's up, Liv?" Fin asked.

Her eyes darted leftward. "Carisi's transfer was approved."

They stared at her.

"Not my call."

They stared some more.

"He's not that bad."

Santana rolled her eyes. "I'll pick up some puppy pads during lunch for when he sprays."

Fin threw back his head in laughter. Olivia mustered more restraint.

"Come on, guys," she pleaded, though her eyes danced with mirth, "give him a break. Give _me_ a break."

Kurt tilted his head. "The brass is making noise."

She gave him a quick look that spoke for itself.

Amanda sat up straight. "They giving you trouble?" she asked her boss.

Santana narrowed her eyes. "We're doing well, garnering major press. My guess is they want you to take the lieutenant's exam or they'll install one of their cronies."

Olivia sighed. "Pretty good guess and, yeah, that's about the gist of it."

The others took a several moments to consider the consequences of not having Olivia in charge.

"So do it," Amanda said, shrugging. "You nailed the Sergeant's exam."

"I've never wanted a political career," Olivia argued. "The higher up you go, the less policing you actually do."

"But the better policing you can make happen," Kurt said. "I understand it's not ideal, and I'm sorry you're being roped into this, but quite frankly, you're exactly who they need. Who _we_ need. You not only care about the work, Sergeant Benson, but about the workers. We all know how rare that is."

Olivia pinked as the others nodded their heads.

"Whatever you decide to do, Liv," Fin began, "we got your back."

"Hey, guys!"

They looked over to see a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Dominick Carisi standing at the edge of the bullpen, holding a box of his personal possessions and all but wagging his tail in joy.

Kurt grimaced. "You all owe me," he hissed. He stood, plastered a welcoming smile on his face, and strolled over to their newest recruit. "Good morning, Sonny. Welcome to Manhattan SVU."

Sonny beamed and bobbed his head, eyes softening. "Hi, Kurt," he said shyly. "Thanks."

Fin narrowed his eyes in concern. "What the fuck?" he hissed.

"Yep," Santana said through gritted teeth. "Carisi has a crush."

"Oh, no," whispered a wide-eyed Amanda.

"Is that why he transferred in here?" a suddenly protective Nick demanded. "To make a play for Kurt?"

They all turned and stared at him. Since when was he concerned on Kurt's behalf? Since when did he call Kurt by name?

"I didn't know he was gay," Olivia said.

"He's not," Santana answered curtly, "and this isn't the first time something like this has happened. Kurt attracts people regardless of sexuality. They fall in love with his mind, with his competency. They start out wanting a mentor, but then it turns. When Kurt can't give them what they want, when what they want confuses or upsets them, the fallout is never good."

Olivia frowned. "Fin, keep an eye on this. If Carisi oversteps, let me know. I'll take care of it."

He nodded.

Santana turned startled eyes on her.

"This isn't Chicago," Olivia said. "I don't know what happened to you both there, but this is my squad and I take care of what's mine. We've got a good thing going here and I'm not about to let some overenthusiastic puppy from Staten Island interfere with that."

Santana didn't thank her, but her gratitude was obvious.

Meanwhile, Carisi was gently nudging his new desk over toward Kurt's own. "How about lunch? You can catch me up on what I need to know."

"Carisi," Olivia interrupted, "you'll be shadowing Tutuola for the foreseeable future. He has the most seniority and will get you up to speed."

Fin hid his grimace and knew better than to contradict her order. In the end, she was his commanding officer and he suspected she planned to make him her second whip. She wanted Carisi brought to heel quickly and he was the best man for the job. So he'd do it for her and for Kurt.

Sonny looked like a kicked puppy. Kurt showed no outward sign of relief, but his shoulders relaxed minutely.

"Lopez and Rollins, I want you to meet with Novak about the Kent case you caught last month. It's due to go to trial next week. Hummel and Amaro, you're up. There's been an attack in the Broadway Box on Forty Seventh Street, some dinky little theater. I'll text you the address."

They nodded at their assignments, not arguing despite their reticence at being paired off in these ways.

"I'll see you later?" a hopeful Sonny asked Kurt, who forced a smile.

"Of course."

* * *

"Hey, how you doing?"

Kurt turned toward him and smirked. "Just fine, Mister Tribbiani."

Nick smirked. "Seriously, though."

"I'm okay, Nicky. Don't worry so much about me."

Warmth infused Amaro's face, as it always did whenever Kurt used the diminutive.

"You're adorable," Kurt cooed.

Nick blushed harder. "Stop flirting," he chastised.

Kurt laughed. "Oh, Nicky, when I decide to flirt with you, believe me, you'll know."

"Are you sure this is necessary?"

"Yes," said a serious Kurt. "We don't want to give anything away."

Nick exhaled. "We haven't done anything wrong."

Kurt eyed him. "No, we haven't, but it would change things."

"Maybe for the better," Nick volleyed. "Look, man, I have joint custody thanks to you. She wanted to take my kids and move them clear across the country." He shook his head. "I don't know how you did it, and you're probably right that you shouldn't tell me, but Boston is at least in driving distance. I get to see my kids when I want and that's down to you."

"Children shouldn't be deprived of their father."

"But why do I have to keep acting like an asshole toward you?"

"Because the others would be weirded out if we were suddenly friends."

Nick grimaced. "If I hadn't been such a dick when you first got there … "

Kurt waved him off. "You were territorial. You were worried about Sergeant Benson's command position. I never took it personally." He blew out a breath. "We're good, Nicky, and it's not forever. The more often we're paired, the more often they'll see that we work well together and the more natural it will appear. Then we can show them we don't hate each other."

"Thank you for helping me," Nick whispered, face flushed. "I didn't realize how much I was letting the divorce affect my work."

"Happy to help. I've been burned before. I know how it goes." He shrugged. "You're good police, Nicky. We wouldn't be the same without you."

Nick felt a warm feeling unfurl in his gut. He opened his mouth.

"Don't," Kurt whispered. "Don't confuse gratitude with something more."

"You don't know what I feel," Nick hotly argued.

"I know that you're not gay, Nick," Kurt shot back, "and whatever you're thinking is dangerous. It would not end well. Drop it."

"What if I don't want to?"

"It takes two to play this game, Nick, and I'm not interested. I've been down this road before with someone who was once a very good friend. We got confused that it might be something more and it ruined everything. I won't do that again. I don't have that many friends and I'm not going to lose the ones I do have. You're too important to me."

Nick wilted. "You can't say stuff like that and not expect me to …"

"To what? Have sex with me?" Kurt shook his head. "You're confused, Nicky, and that's all this is. If I wasn't gay, this wouldn't even be an issue. You have no desire to sleep with your other male friends, do you?"

Nick was silent.

"Of course you don't. Just because I'm gay doesn't mean you need to be in order for us to relate to each other. I don't know where you got such an idea, but you need to stop it."

Nick gritted his teeth. Part of him knew Kurt was right, that he was being ridiculous and could very well lose what he was so desperately trying to hold onto. Kurt had become one of his best friends, perhaps even the best friend he'd ever had. He'd never been as close to another guy as he was to Kurt and, yeah, he was confused about how he was feeling.

"When Carisi …"

"Sonny is not an issue," Kurt interrupted, "nor will he ever be. He's not my type and he's not gay. He desperately wants to do well, to prove himself, and I think he has the potential to be a good SVU cop. He's smart, intuitive, and compassionate, but he's also reckless and overreacts. He's latched onto me because he views me as the least threatening member of the squad. That's all."

Nick tightened his hands around the wheel and fell silent.

Carisi was an asshole, but Kurt's explanation made sense. As for the other stuff, well, maybe, but when he had caught sight of a nude Kurt changing in the locker room, the feelings that had stoked were anything but friendly.

He supposed he wasn't completely gay, but Kurt was being deliberately obtuse if he honestly believed Nick didn't want sleep with him. He involuntarily licked his lips, imagining his mouth on Kurt's cock. If that wasn't gay, he didn't know what the fuck was. Maybe it wasn't all rainbows and Broadway, but it certainly wasn't straight.

He heard a gentle cough and looked at Kurt out of the corner of his eye, smirking when he saw Kurt adjust his package and stare determinedly out the window.

So Kurt _was_ interested. He was just trying to convince himself that he shouldn't be by arguing that Nick himself truly wasn't.

That was okay. Nick could be patient. He just had to continue laying the groundwork, show Kurt that they could be friends and possibly more. He had to stop pushing and let Kurt set the pace. But it was also time to start showing their colleagues that they were friends, that Kurt meant something to him, especially if that would deter Carisi. Some gentle, _friendly_ touching probably wouldn't be amiss.

He didn't know what had happened to Kurt in Chicago, who had hurt him so badly, but if he ever got his hands on that asshole, he'd probably be sent up to Rikers for murder.

* * *

A knot of dread settled in Kurt's stomach as Nick pulled up the curb, which never meant anything good. He reached out with his senses and felt pain and rage, but they were vague, just out of his reach.

He slowly got out of the car and looked up at the theater marquee, suddenly desperate not to be there. He would've given anything not to walk through the double doors staring back at him like eyes.

"What's wrong?" asked a concerned Nick.

"I don't know," Kurt murmured. And he didn't. He also didn't want to know. He could feel his body struggling with fight or flight. He wanted absolutely no part of this.

Nick gently touched his shoulder. "They're waiting on us."

Kurt's face cleared. "Of course," he replied distractedly, squaring his shoulders and stalking forward.

What was this? It was like nothing he had ever before experienced. He wasn't the empath Santana was. Many people thought her unfeeling when the truth was she could feel the entire spectrum of human emotion. It was why she more often than not forcibly deadened herself to feeling. It wasn't healthy but it was how she coped, and who the hell was he to question her process?

"Amaro and Hummel," Nick told the beat cop guarding the door. "SVU. What do we have?"

"One vic, white female," the kid said, shaken. "Beaten pretty badly."

"Raped?"

"Attempted, but not successful."

"That's something, at least," Nick muttered, ushering Kurt inside.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, Kurt's knees swung inward and he collapsed, the psychic remnants dripping from the cavernous space overwhelming him.

"Are you okay?" Nick demanded, hurrying to help him up. "Are you sick? Should I call a bus?"

Kurt tightly shook his head and waved him off. "Of course not," he snapped. "I just tripped."

Nick raised a brow. "Yeah? On what?"

Kurt said nothing and pushed forward, letting that sense of dread guide him toward the person who needed his help. He was glad Nick was here with him and not Santana. She always freaked out when he made any misstep, always so sure that he was solid. She drew her strength from him and panicked when he exhibited any moment of weakness.

And he did feel weak. He hadn't felt anything like this in years, since long before Chicago.

He shook it off and traversed the long darkened hallway toward the light which seemed to beckon him. It felt cold and sterile, unwelcome. He heard harsh whispers, pained gasps. At last he stepped into the room and immediately wanted to flee.

A woman was seated on a velvet bench before a makeup mirror, her stage costume ripped, bruises littering her arms. A large gash was seeping blood into a rapidly-blackening eye. She was missing a large hank of hair which had obviously been torn from her scalp. She was covered with a blanket and a paper cup of coffee was shaking in her hand, threatening to spill over any second.

She was almost sobbing, heaving great shuddering breaths as she tried to curl in on herself. A female officer was pressing her with quiet questions, but only upsetting her all the more. Her entire body was trembling as if in seizure.

Kurt stared dumbly, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body.

"Rachel."


	5. Changing Orbits

Rachel jerked at the sound of her name and looked up through teary eyes, which widened dramatically, almost comically. She felt her heartbeat accelerate, blood thrumming in her ears.

It had been almost twenty years, yet he looked no different. She then narrowed her eyes. No, there were differences; she was just unaccustomed to them. He was taller, had finally evened out at about six feet, maybe slightly less. He was leaner too, which made her irrationally angry, and appeared to have actual muscles. They were elongated and slight, but he looked strong with a swimmer's build.

The eyes were the same. She rather suspected they always would be, forever haunted and haunting. He had the very early stages of crow's feet etched at the ends, but the rest of his face, including his forehead, was free of wrinkles. She doubted it was Botox. Not for the first time, she wished she had asked what his skincare regimen had been all those years ago rather than deriding him for it. He looked amazing and easily a dozen years younger than he actually was.

She hoped the crow's feet meant he had laughed loud and often, that his life was a happy one.

He was even more beautiful than he had been as a teenager, which she hadn't believed possible, and she resented him fiercely for it.

What was he doing here?

What was he doing in New York? In life?

She would have heard if he was pounding his feet in the theater district. She might not have had the success for which she had once dreamed, but she had a solid résumé and decent connections. She would know if a true countertenor had arrived on the Great White Way looking to make his mark.

She examined the rest of him. He was dressed in navy pants with a white pinstripe, along with a powder blue Oxford shirt with a white collar and cuffs in the French style. His shoes were plain black wingtips polished to a sheen. They matched his belt. Elegant and classy, as had always been the case, but decidedly adult and less ostentatious. Now people looked at him because he made the clothes, not the other way around.

Then her eyes zoomed in and stared at the gold shield hanging from his neck.

What on earth was that supposed to be? Part of a costume?

Her eyes traveled lower, pretending she wasn't checking out his bulge, and saw the gun holstered on his hip.

She wanted to laugh hysterically.

No, this wasn't real.

The last she had heard – the last _anyone_ had heard – he was studying pre-med at Brown. Then Mike had disappeared and Kurt had fallen out of contact with everyone. He had closed his email and social media accounts and disconnected his cell. He had never returned to Lima after that and the only time his name was mentioned was when someone invoked it in the presence of Artie, the only Gleek with whom Kurt stayed in contact.

Artie had always been notoriously tight-lipped about Kurt and his life. She suspected others, like Quinn and Tina, had known more, but she was never sure. Tina and Kurt had stopped speaking after he started dating Mike. Kurt and Mike had never been inappropriate, had never started dating until long after Tina and Mike had broken up, but Tina had held Kurt responsible.

It had cost her a dear friend, as she found out when Mike disappeared and she had no one with whom to mourn.

As for Kurt and Finn … she shifted restlessly and averted her eyes. Even she didn't know what had happened between them. Neither did Carole. None of them had spoken to Kurt since the day of Burt's funeral, after which Kurt had left Lima never to look back.

At last her eyes locked with his and she saw such breathtaking compassion staring back at her.

"Kurt?" she whispered. She blinked owlishly and swiftly stood up, swaying with the effort. "Kurt!"

He held up his hands. "Easy, Rachel," he said softly so as not to spook her, as he took a step back. "Please sit back down. You have to be examined and evidence needs to be collected. If you move too much, you could transfer fibers or your attacker's DNA to another person or object."

Her stare deepened, but then her mind registered the word _attacker_ and her face collapsed. She resumed her sobbing.

"I'm right here," Kurt said soothingly. "I'm not going anywhere, honey. You're not alone. This has to be done right, though, if you want to catch this guy." He paused and arched a brow. "That's what you want, right? To catch the motherfucker who dared lay hands on you? You want to make him pay."

She was stunned by his language and then suddenly overwhelmed with rage as her eyes darkened.

"Yes," she growled.

He nodded. "Okay. Let us do what we need to do to make that happen."

She offered a delayed nod.

Holy fuckballs.

Kurt Hummel was a cop.

* * *

"I take it you know her," Nick drawled, guiding Kurt to a corner of the room by the elbow.

Kurt looked away. "She's my sister-in-law."

Nick blew out a breath. "Well, shit."

"Her name is Rachel Berry and she's married to my stepbrother Finn. They live on Long Island, last I knew."

"Last you knew?" repeated a confused Amaro.

"I haven't seen her for twenty years, Nicky," Kurt admitted, his tone cross. "We went to high school together, but I haven't spoken to her since my father died."

Nick knew he had just stepped into a minefield and understood he needed to back off immediately. He might not have been friends with Kurt for very long, but he knew when to stay out of it. Kurt's body language practically _screamed_ homicidal rage and Nick didn't wish to be its target. Hell, he didn't even know who the target would be.

"I can't work this case," Kurt continued. "It's an obvious conflict of interest. Alex shouldn't either."

Nick nodded, glad he didn't have to make the call. "What do you want to do?"

Kurt exhaled. "Nothing that could be called into question during trial. Santana and Amanda are busy with Casey, and Fin is overseeing Sonny. Santana knows and hates Rachel, so she shouldn't be involved either." He nodded to himself. "I'll call Sergeant Benson and D.A. Barba."

"Do you want me to do that for you?" Nick asked kindly.

A ghost of a smile flitted across Kurt's face. "I appreciate the offer, but I should do it. I want it clear from the outset that I recused myself willingly rather than having to be cajoled into doing so." He looked down, his face flushed. "I would appreciate it if you could contact Rachel's husband for me. I haven't spoken with him in … this shouldn't come from me."

Nick gave a robotic nod, surmising Kurt hadn't spoken with his brother either in a very long time. "Sure, I can call your brother for you."

"Stepbrother," Kurt ground out. "Finn Hudson is not, has never been, and will never be my brother. We were only ever related by a technicality which ceased with my father's death. We just knew each other once upon a time."

 _Whoa_ , Nick thought, actually backing up a step. He had seen Kurt annoyed and even mad, but this was sheer anger and it looked as though it might escalate. Hesitantly, he laid his hands on Kurt's shoulders, pleased when Kurt blew out a breath and laid his hands atop Nick's own.

"I'll be okay," Kurt whispered. "Let me make those calls. Please distract her for me, else she'll interfere."

Nick nodded and wandered over to Rachel, who immediately cringed against the female officer still stationed at her side.

Kurt sighed and pulled out his phone. Rachel would do best if she were questioned by another woman. He hoped Olivia was up to the challenge.

* * *

She was. She was also thankful Kurt had called her rather than inserting himself in the middle of an investigation in which he had no business participating. She wasn't surprised; she had never doubted his competence.

She was on her way to the elevator and anxiously pressed the button. She wanted to get there as soon as possible so that Kurt was free to comfort his sister-in-law as a friend and not a cop. She could tell from his tone, however, that while he had accepted this as his responsibility, he was not looking forward to it.

The victim was already en route to St. Luke's-Roosevelt. The investigation was temporarily stalled until Rachel Berry could be examined. She had made her initial disclosure to the officers first on the scene but had refused to cooperate with Amaro, loudly protesting his presence and existence, bleating for Kurt. According to Amaro's follow-up call, Berry had screamed for Kurt even as they were taking her away by ambulance, begging and pleading for him to accompany her, and screaming and crying when he refused.

The doors opened and she stepped inside, nodding at Barba, who was going with her. They didn't speak, but she took in his tight stance and worried eyes.

Somehow, she knew he wasn't worried for Berry.

Not for the first time, she wondered what his relationship with Hummel truly was.

She would never ask. It wasn't her business and she knew both of them well enough to know that they wouldn't compromise their personal or professional integrity under any circumstances.

But she had watched them dance around each other these past few months. She had seen the body language, the soft whispers and even softer eyes. She had seen the hesitant touches that never quite met the other body, the longing obvious to those who were looking.

In truth, she wasn't that surprised. Barba might have been a good fifteen years older, but he was a handsome, accomplished and well-educated man. He and Hummel made a freaky kind of sense, she supposed, even if she had never before the slightest inclination to question Barba's sexuality.

She flashed back on Lopez's warning earlier that day: people flocked to Hummel regardless of sexuality. He just drew them in like moths to a flame because of his intelligence, ability, and almost preternatural knowledge of human behavior.

Five minutes with Hummel and you wanted to spill your entire life story to him. The only odd thing about it was that it always seemed as though he knew your story before you even opened your mouth.

* * *

Barba and Benson arrived at the hospital just behind a ridiculously tall and handsome man toting two small children. The eldest, a little girl of about four, was holding her father's hand and chirping gaily about everything she passed, putting relentless questions to her father, though she didn't appear desirous of answers. She was an adorable girl with large chocolate eyes and shiny chestnut hair, blunt bangs covering her forehead.

The youngest was a boy, if the blue ensemble was any indication, and swaddled tightly inside a sling nestled against his father's chest. He looked young, less than a year, and dozed fitfully as his father did his best not to jostle him.

"Excuse me," the man said desperately to the middle-aged African-American woman manning the desk, "my name is Finn Hudson. My wife was just brought in. She was … hurt. I'm supposed to meet a Detective Amaro."

Olivia cut in. "Mister Hudson, I'm Sergeant Olivia Benson, Manhattan SVU. I'll be overseeing your wife's case. Why don't you come with me and we'll get you into see her as quickly as possible."

Finn turned and stared at her as if gauging her sincerity. His eyes shot to Barba and frowned.

"This is Assistant District Attorney Rafael Barba," she added. "He'll be prosecuting your wife's case if it makes it to trial."

Finn's eyes narrowed. "Why wouldn't it go to trial?" he roughly demanded. "She was …" He trailed off and looked down at his daughter, who was staring up at him with wide eyes and a trusting smile. His shoulders sagged and nodded in defeat. "Okay, what you said. Yes. Thanks."

* * *

It was the longest elevator ride of Finn's life, made with his eyes closed.

He simultaneously urged the elevator to go faster so he could rush to Rachel's side while at the same time wishing it would get stuck so he could put off dealing with this.

This had always been one of his biggest fears, one which Rachel had always downplayed, that she might be attacked in the city, might be …

But she hadn't been and that counted for something. Not much, perhaps, but something.

He opened his eyes and a brief smile crossed his lips as the lady detective engaged Cosette. She had always been such a happy little girl. Finn silently prayed that could continue, that this ugliness wouldn't touch his children, but he didn't put much stock in it.

At least the police had been called. An investigation was being done. Rachel was being examined.

He had watched enough crime shows to understand that everything that should be done was being done. He knew better than to hope they would catch this fucker, but at least an effort was being made. Rachel was alive and she hadn't been raped. The physical injuries would heal; the psychological ones would take a lot more time.

Their marriage was strong. Once it had been made official, all of the minutiae that had seemed so important in high school had just disappeared. They knew each other, the best and worst parts, and could get through this. They _would_ get through this.

"How old?" the lady whispered, nodding at the baby.

"Nine months," Finn quietly replied, looking down at his shoes, which suddenly embarrassed him. Why did he still dress like a teenager? "He said his first word today." He sniffled. "Mama. I recorded it."

Olivia's smile was warm. "That's good. That will help. It will remind her that while these are extraordinary circumstances, there's still normalcy to be found. She just has to look for it."

Finn nodded absently, hoping she was right.

Olivia surreptitiously passed the little girl over to Barba, who charmed her by speaking in Spanish and tickling her.

"There are some things you should know before we get up there," Olivia muttered. "The first is that your wife requested you not be in the room while she's being examined. She made it clear that it has nothing to do with you, but she was beaten badly, Mister Hudson, and she doesn't want you to see her so vulnerable."

Finn sighed. "Rachel used to play the victim a lot when we were kids, but she always hated to be seen as one." He shook his head. "She's getting good care?"

"The Sexual Assault Unit at this hospital is one of the best in the city," Olivia affirmed. "She's in good hands."

"Why here, though? There are closer hospitals."

Olivia looked away. "As I said, this is the best place for her. Someone made sure she was sent here."

"Well, thank them for me, would you? It helps that these people know what they're doing."

She waited for it.

"Who was it? Who sent her here, I mean?"

Her tongue ran over dry lips. She didn't see the point of prevaricating. The man would find out for himself soon enough.

"One of my best detectives. Kurt Hummel."

Finn's head whipped around so fast, she was surprised it didn't fall off.

* * *

Finn and Kurt stood at opposite ends of the hall, staring at one another. The tension was so rife it could be filleted. Finn was the first to look away, as he always had been, though he was rather proud of himself for resisting as long as he managed.

He couldn't believe that this was actually happening, that he was with Kurt again. Yeah, it sucked that Kurt was just as mad as he'd ever been, but at least they weren't fighting. Yet.

He could tell Kurt was just about to stalk away, never to speak to him again, and then his eyes fell on the baby sleeping against Finn's chest.

Finn saw his frosty brother melt before his eyes. Kurt's own eyes softened and radiated immediate love. He knew Kurt had always wanted children. He wondered if he had any. He was ashamed he didn't know.

At least … he _thought_ Kurt had wanted children. He had just assumed so because Kurt always got goofy around kids. The truth of the matter was that he had no idea what Kurt wanted. He never had.

Before he could give it conscious thought, Finn felt his legs quickly crossing the suddenly cavernous space that existed between them. He watched as Kurt steeled himself, eyes hardening once more, lips pursing, fingers curling into fists.

And then he was standing before Kurt, looking down into his eyes, only to realize he no longer had to look down quite so much. Kurt was taller; less than half a foot separated them now. Kurt still looked young, like a kid, like he probably always would.

And he was definitely a cop. The shield and gun gave it away, sure, but it was evidenced in the way Kurt stood. His rigid posture was no longer so he could look down his nose at people before they could slight him. He now filled the space which he occupied. Hell, he filled the entire floor. He was confident, almost preternaturally so, and would cede no ground.

How could Kurt be a cop?

Like, what kind of bizarro world was this?

Kurt was supposed to be singing and dancing, or making clothes, or raising kids or something.

Finn winced as Kurt glowered, almost as if reading his mind. He'd always hated that because he was pretty sure Kurt _could_ read his mind. Kurt had always had his number, no matter how many times Finn tried to change it.

And, yeah, Finn Hudson was still an asshole. At least where Kurt Hummel was concerned.

"Hi," Finn whispered.

"Hello," Kurt said shortly. He blinked and looked down when he felt his cuff being tugged.

"Hi, Unca Kurt!"

Kurt offered an owlish blink in reply. He paused before dropping to his haunches and looking the little girl in her eyes, smiling. "Hello there," he said warmly, shaking her hand.

The little girl giggled, blushing slightly. "I'm Cosette! Mama and Daddy have pictures of you all over the house!"

Kurt raised a brow and looked up at Finn, who was now blushing in concert.

"Mama said you wouldn't come visit because Daddy was mean to you a hundred years ago," she whispered, "but I'm not supposed to tell Daddy that, okay? So it'll be just between us."

"You are your mother's daughter."

Finn had little choice but to pass his children over to his … Kurt. To Kurt.

Kurt took them with aplomb and promptly engaged Cosette in a conversation about all things _Frozen_ while simultaneously humming a lullaby to keep Caleb docile. For a moment, Finn just stood and watched, trying to process how surreal all of this was.

He absently wondered if Kurt still sang or if he had stopped. He had stopped so many things after losing Mike. Or so he'd heard from Artie.

Jesus, he hadn't thought about Artie in years, hadn't seen or spoken with him. He didn't even know if Artie was still alive. All of them had fallen out of contact shortly after graduation. It was strange, how strong and important those bonds had been then, only to realize now how weak they were. Still, Finn longed for them, for the innocence and invincibility which had accompanied them.

And then the lady detective was next to him with the lawyer guy explaining about what was happening and what would happen next and Finn remembered that the woman he'd been with for half his life, and then his wife for the last ten years, had been almost raped today.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He nodded in all of the right places, a skill he had mastered years ago, and, before he knew it, he was being rushed into the room as the exam was over. He didn't want to go in, knowing what was waiting for him. He wanted to stay outside with his kids, with Kurt, where life was happy and he could keep his blinders in place.

He allowed himself to be led inside.

* * *

"Hey."

Kurt looked up through bleary eyes and gave Santana a wilted smile. "It's been quite a day."

She snorted and dropped beside him, eyeing the children with caution.

He didn't say anything. She knew to whom they belonged.

"Are you okay?" she whispered.

"No," he said dully. "Not only with everything that happened, but what will happen next." He looked at her. "They'll never let me go now. I thought that part of my life was over. I wanted it to be."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

"She knew about me," he said, nodding his head at Cosette, who was lightly dozing against him, "my name, I mean. She called me Unca Kurt."

Santana blew out a breath. "Shit."

"They told her about me. She asked why I had never been to visit, if she had done something wrong."

Santana closed her eyes.

"She thinks we're family. If I turn my back now, I'll be turning it on her. That's not right and it's not fair."

"So be a doting uncle," Santana said reasonably. "That doesn't mean you have to be Berry's friend or Hudson's brother."

Kurt said nothing as he stared ahead. "You should see what he did to her."

Santana stiffened as every muscles in her body tensed. "I don't need to. I can feel her pain."

His nod was bleak.

"Did they say anything?"

He offered a mild shrug. "Not really. They're both in shock for all of the obvious reasons, but I could hear the questions they didn't ask. Eventually I'll have to answer them."

"No, you don't," she said harshly. "That's something you've never understood. You don't exist to placate them, Kurt. You don't owe them anything. You made your choices long ago and so did they."

His laugh was bitter. "No, they didn't. Or at least she didn't."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

He closed his eyes. "Finn lied, Santana, just as he always did. Rachel doesn't know. He never told her."

Her eyes widened before narrowing. She set her jaw and crossed her arms defensively across her chest. "Fuck."

"That about sums it up."

She shook her head in annoyance. "You were at the scene. Do you know who did this?"

"Yes, and so do you. Proving it might be an issue."

She tilted her head.

"It was Jesse. Jesse St. James attacked Rachel."


End file.
